All Our Scattered Leaves (part 4/6)
by Mercutio of Naboo
Summary: Master Skywalker finally answers some of his own questions, but has another one to answer- just what is another Jedi doing out in the back of beyond anyway?


Disclaimer: The Star Wars universe belongs to George Lucas. I merely   
play with it when he's not looking.  
  
Author's note: I'm not sure if the first part of this instalment  
really works. I didn't want to milk the angst too much, but I did want  
to get the emotional impact. Suggestions and comments would be   
gratefully received. I'd also like to offer my thanks to all those who   
have given me such good reviews so far. I'm still waiting for someone   
to tell me they hated this thing, I get paranoid if everybody keeps   
being nice...  
  
  
All Our Scattered Leaves  
************************  
  
Part 4:  
  
Old Man Lars watched as the rodians departed, his eyes resting on the   
youngster that the others called a Jedi. 'Jedi': The word called up so   
many memories.  
  
'There is no emotion.'  
  
Yet there was love. Love gained, love lost, love for friends and   
family. How could that love be denied? To live and not to love, to   
live cold and empty. That was not calm, it was hollowness.  
  
'There is no death.'  
  
The greatest lie of all. No death for the Jedi, yet so many friends   
were not Jedi and so many friends had gone. He had tried to believe,   
as he used to believe. He had tried to understand, as he once thought   
he understood. In five years of meditation on this quiet world he had   
begun to think that he could find the peace he sought; and yet a   
single word was enough to reawaken the grief in his soul.  
  
Old Man Lars stared back up at the clouds that began gathering   
overhead. Scattered clouds, flung across the skies, now coming   
together. There would be rain soon, he thought. Perhaps the rain would   
wash away the pain.  
  
Despite the many decades spent away from the desert planet of his   
youth, water still held a childlike fascination for the old man.   
The way in which clouds could form from perfectly clear skies, the   
moisture that was all around drawn together and made visible. Out of   
long habit the old man resumed his cross-legged position on the   
ground, his mind drifting with the clouds as he tried to touch an   
understanding that lay just beyond his grasp.  
  
'A Jedi, here?' The errant thought interrupted his meditation. A Jedi   
here beyond the boundaries of the Old Republic as well as the New? A   
Jedi he had not sensed earlier? But how?  
  
Berating himself for his lack of control, the old man brushed away the   
questions. The clouds were massing quickly, rushing towards him from   
the horizon in a seemingly solid wall. He had flown through clouds   
many times, and knew they were cold and insubstantial things, but from   
a distance they seemed firm enough to grasp a hold of.  
  
Now there was the potential for an analogy if ever he saw one.  
  
Had he been thinking backwards the whole time? He had been mourning   
the loss of something which seemed solid and real, when the true   
reality was so much larger and more awesome. He had been both too   
close and too far away- too close to see the full scope of the   
universe that surrounded him, too far away to see that the physical   
world was formed of clouds, insubstantial images of the full truth,   
fragments of the whole. Clouds formed from the skies, brought their  
blessings then faded away. To mourn their passing was meaningless.  
  
The old man's face lit up, not with a smile but with something that   
was both more joyful and more solemn. Lives were never more than  
fleeting aspects of the deeper reality, changing and merging but never  
lost: you could not lose something that was always with you, within  
you and around you. You could not lose something that you were part   
of. Nor did he love the fragments of the whole any less, for love   
itself was only part of something deeper, something peaceful and   
complete.  
  
For one glorious moment the old man knew what it was to be truly one   
with the Force. In that moment he no longer felt old, as time had no   
true meaning any more. In that moment he could have stepped beyond the   
frail illusion of the physical world.  
  
Something held him back.  
  
The one had been known as Old Man Lars opened his eyes and peered   
towards the edge of the spaceport compound. There was a Jedi here,   
where there were thought to be none. He was a Jedi Master, he was  
_the_ Jedi Master, and he ought to investigate. Besides, a moment's  
distraction had somehow brought him to an understanding that five   
years of meditation had failed to achieve. He should at least say   
thank you.  
  
******  
  
Reeshto slouched along at the back of the group of rodian youths. It   
was the proper place for the youngest, but his thoughts did not match   
his position. He seldom spent much time with them, and was being   
reminded yet again of why that was. They were crude, rude, quarrelsome   
and unthinkingly violent. So maybe that summed up rodians as a whole,   
but that didn't mean they couldn't try to change.  
  
Reeshto quickly lost what little interest he had in the group when   
they took over the starfighter holosims at the arcade. He knew he   
could beat the rest of them with his eyes closed- literally- which   
left him with the happy choice of winning and gaining a whole bunch of   
enemies, or letting himself down by playing to lose. He chose the   
third option, and left the arcade alone. He was often alone, not   
always by choice. His grandmother had left him her Jedi heritage, in   
his blood and in a slim datapad of information, and that heritage had   
set him apart from his peers and family. He did not regret it, not   
exactly; but he often felt isolated, even in a crowd.  
  
The streets outside were darkening rapidly, although it was long   
before nightfall. Reeshto did not need to look up in order to tell   
that one of Bayashi's unpredictable rainstorms was on its way. Other   
pedestrians hurried to complete their business before the rains   
struck, and the traffic began to clear. A Bayashi downpour could pound   
a speederbike into the ground, and nobody cared to be caught out in   
one- except crazy old Lars, who never seemed to notice.  
  
Reeshto turned into a covered side alley, with no particular   
destination in mind. He was not especially wary, as even the roughest   
parts of Space City were not that dangerous. Nevertheless, a sudden   
prickling at the back of his neck was all the prompting he needed to   
duck into the shadow of a storage bin.  
  
A large group had entered the alley in which the young rodian was   
concealed. Reeshto counted ten figures, a mix of the more common   
sentient species. They dressed and spoke like offworlders, the sort of   
rim traders Reeshto was used to seeing at the spaceport every couple   
of months or so, armed with the usual collection of small blasters. To   
find a large group of spacers well away from the starport was not   
common. The rodian crouched cautiously in the darkness as the group   
came closer, catching the end of their quiet conversation.  
  
"I still say we move some of the stuff here. It's an untouched market,   
there's no competition. Sure, it's extra work while we get   
established, but after that we're laughing."  
  
"And _I_ say Tyrane would be better. Dew's legal there. Okay, maybe we   
sell some of the load we've got while we're here, but I'm thinking   
long-term."  
  
"If it's legal, it's taxed. I've never paid tax in my life, and I'm   
not about to start now." The speaker stopped at a nondescript doorway   
almost opposite the rodian's hiding-place. After a short pause the   
door opened and the group went inside.  
  
Dew smugglers were bad news. There had been some trouble with spice-  
pushers a few years back, Reeshto could just remember. The authorities   
had probably relaxed their guard since then. Well, he was a Jedi. He   
ought to do something.  
  
Reeshto reached the doorway at a crouching run. He listened for a   
moment, and hearing no sound from the other side of the door he pushed   
gently. There was still no alarm or shout of warning, but he caught   
the faint sound of footsteps on metal. He opened the door a little   
further and slid inside. His large eyes adjusted almost instantly to   
the darkness of the corridor inside, and he spotted the movement as   
the last of the smugglers went through an opening halfway along.   
  
Moving silently, Reeshto ran along the corridor and pressed his back   
to the wall beside the opening. He peeped quickly around the corner,   
and saw a flight of metal meshwork stairs heading upwards in a spiral.   
Then he pressed himself back against the wall. The door from the alley   
had opened, and a figure was silhouetted in its frame. Reeshto's   
sudden rush of adrenaline faded when he saw that it was Old Man Lars.   
The old man headed along the corridor towards him, his face a picture   
of gentle curiosity.  
  
"Is this some kind of game?"  
  
"Shh!" Reeshto tried to get the old man to keep his voice down.   
"Dew smugglers. Up there. Armed!"  
  
"Can I play with them too?"  
  
Reeshto was too much on edge to spot the spark of mischief in the old  
man's eyes. "It's not a game, granddad," he hissed. "They're   
dangerous. You'd better go back. Go tell Security. I'll see to things   
here."  
  
'Impulsive young idiot, he'll get himself killed,' the old man thought   
to himself. Taking the initiative, he passed the rodian and followed   
the smugglers.  
  
"Crazy old man, he'll get himself killed," Reeshto grumbled to   
himself, surprised at how quickly the man could move. Checking that  
his lightsaber was still secure on his belt, the rodian followed old  
Lars up the stairs.  



End file.
